30 August 2010

I live for days off. That’s another reason, one of many, why I must live in Europe one day: thirty-four hour weeks and the entire month of August off. My kind of work schedule. Alas, today was not a day off, and it seemed unusually long because the last two Mondays I’ve only worked half a day. I watered the onions and strawberries, pulled up the broccoli stumps, harvested and cleaned all of the diakon, and packed peaches.

I collected apples—the ones that have fallen—for the first time today, too. The season, it appears, will be early and small. There aren’t as many apples on the trees as there have been in past years. I have to say, I'm not at all opposed to an early, small season, though that is perhaps selfish of me.

As I crawled under the trees today picking up the dropped apples while the sun reached its zenith overhead, the crickets parting before me like a humming black sea, the hot air smelled like applesauce.

29 August 2010

In the few years that I’ve been away from home and gone to church on my own, I’ve always sat by myself, whether it be on a hard wooden pew or a folding chair. There might be people around me—the elderly people whom I sat in the midst of at the church I went to in Jackson always felt sorry for me and offered me peppermints during the sermon—but I was always alone. A visitor. A stranger.

Today in church, I sat on the narrow pew in the middle of three older women who have taken it upon themselves to welcome me here, to make me feel a part of something, to ensure that I’m not lonely. And I must say, that makes all the difference.

28 August 2010

I spent the day today with three of my new friends—Vivienne (68), Sally (68), and Margaret (85)—at the American Folk Festival in Bangor. The festival was a lot of fun with eclectic music, handmade crafts, and a huge selection of food. I already feel as if the four of us have been friends for some time, and I now have a standing invitation to their get-togethers. This coming week it’s potluck and a game night…

27 August 2010

The moon was so bright that it kept waking me up periodically throughout the night. When I first went to bed, from my front door I could see the moon where it crested over the pines and, beyond my sight, glistened over the black, high sea. At about one o’clock, it poured through the skylight in my living room/dining room/kitchen and cast its long, pooling glow across the floor, hesitating in the doorway of my bedroom. And then at four this morning, it crept through my window, nudging me over to make room, and curled up in bed beside me like a serene, cool silver cat draped across my pillow.

That’s the first time I’ve so strongly perceived the moon’s progression across the dark night sky.

26 August 2010

My gas stove and I have an uneasy alliance. While he grumbles and sputters about how much I make him work, I eye him warily, expecting the next metallic cough to engulf me in a rolling plume of blue flame. We’ve come to an agreement, though: If I won’t turn him up over 350 degrees, he won’t set off my fire/gas alarm. I think we’re coming to warily respect each other.

I packed peaches all day today and will be doing the same tomorrow instead of going to the farmers’ market. I have to say, I’m a bit disappointed that I’m not going to the market tomorrow, because I’ve been working myself up all week and have finally garnered the courage to start up a conversation with the French boy. Oh well. Hopefully I’ll be able to maintain a reservoir of such gumption and unreservedness for next week.

More and more at the farmers’ markets lately, peoples’ faces are becoming familiar to me. Today in Brooklin, I was able to call Judy, Courtney, Jay, two Margarets, Nancy, and Bobby by name. And people are starting to recognize and know me as well. It’s an incredible feeling. As if I’m starting to belong.

25 August 2010

There are bugs in my bread. Not the banana and apple zucchini bread I baked the other day, but the bread I bought at the store to eat for breakfast with almond butter. There’s nothing to do but throw it out, I suppose. The weather is turning cooler, though, leisurely pivoting towards the crispness of autumn—I can tell by the briskness of the weather in the mornings and evenings—so I’ll start having a bowl of cream of wheat for breakfast.

I gave myself one day—yesterday—to be miserable, but no more. These few months will be what I make them. Hermione has helped already. She brightens my apartment and gives me something to nurture. I’ve also started playing music on my computer instead of just sitting in the stark silence. And I’ve been reading a book I’ve never read before instead of just rereading all the books I brought with me. The book—The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje—is utterly gripping, and I’ve spent my spare moments soaking in the poetic prose; I even took it with me today to the farmers’ market to read since the torrential downpour made customers few.

I have a guilty confession to make. Every now and then when I’m sorting the fruit to pack, I find it: the perfect peach. A blushing spherical duet of burgundy and gold that rests heavily in my palm—the quintessence with which, I imagine, the trees in the Garden of Eden were laden. It would easily sell the over-priced quart of peaches if it were gently balanced and displayed on top of the carton. But I don’t pack it, as I should. Instead, I eat it, savor the burst of sweet sunshine, suck away the sticky juice that bleeds in rivulets over my fingers, consume fuzzed flesh and fruit until I reach the pit. Then I step outside, glance around to make certain no one has discovered my appropriation, toss the small, corrugated heart into the woods, and return to my careful inspection and methodical packing. This has become my surreptitious tradition.

24 August 2010

I sort of have hot water, though only in my shower. The water stays hot for about a minute and then goes cold, which is the same thing it was doing in the beginning and the reason they shut off the hot water in the first place. It’s better than nothing at all, but I have to admit that as soon as I felt the luxuriously warm water begin to cool, I almost broke down and cried.

Which is what I’ve felt like doing several times in the last twenty-four hours. It’s not the work. I’ve acclimated to the long, laborious hours and actually enjoyed the four hours I spent fertilizing eighty saplings today (as well as watering the onions and strawberries and packing peaches for the farmers’ market tomorrow). I think it’s mainly the isolation I feel here that has suddenly and viciously made me homesick. I’ve realized in these past two weeks just how essential community is to one’s mental and emotional wellbeing. While I may prefer the quiet corner in a room, I’d like to not be the only occupant of said room. That corner in a silent, empty room is bitterly lonely. I thought that this would be the perfect chance to finish the novel I’ve been attempting to write since April, but the constant, absolute silence seems to deafen my imagination. I thought my books would be a comfort, and they are, but they would be so much more so if there were someone here with me to whom I could say, “Hey, listen to this…”

In an attempt at self-preservation, I bought an orchid today. The Phalaenopsis orchid is my favorite flower: the deceptively fragile appearance, the vulnerability of its exposed roots. I have two at home—Genevieve and Charlie Brown (a precocious almost-four-year-old named the latter)—but was unable to bring them with me. I realize that it might sound a little batty that I purchased a flower to talk to, but better a flower than a piece of furniture, aye? Now if I started addressing my rocking chair, that would be cause for concern. As it is, I think Hermione will make a splendid companion.

As far as human companions go, I met up with Sally—one of the older ladies I met at church—tonight at the ice cream social. The ice cream social wasn’t quite what I’d envisioned, but it was enjoyable and did give me a chance just to be in the presence of others. I have to say, I never thought I would relish that.

isn't Hermione gorgeous?

23 August 2010

I spent the morning picking cucumbers, watering the corn and the onions, weeding the strawberries (which happen to look a lot like weeds themselves, and I think I inadvertently uprooted some of them), collecting the crutches that prop up limbs from the peach orchard and putting then aside for next season, and—of course—packing peaches.

I got the afternoon off, and I spent it baking. I was rather overzealous and ended up with four small loaves of banana bread and one large loaf and five small loaves of apple zucchini bread. Good thing I have a freezer. I thought I would call Margaret and Sally and see if they’d like a loaf, but I was never able to get in touch with them. So once my bread had cooled and I'd put it away, I took my laptop and drove the twelve miles into Blue Hill to sit in the library and use the Internet.

Supposedly, I have hot water now, but I’ve been afraid to try it for fear of having my hopes of a gushing stream of steamy water dashed.

22 August 2010

I was the youngest by several decades at church today. The first day Mum and I arrived here we noticed on the church’s marquis as we were driving through town that they were having a lobster and chicken dinner that evening. We decided to go and ended up sitting at a table with a group of older women who were simply a hoot. Well, after the service was over today, two women from that group spotted me and rushed over. They had talked amongst themselves, Margaret and Sally told me, and had decided to include me in their group, because they thought that I would be lonely here by myself.

After exchanging phone numbers with Margaret and Sally and making plans to meet at the ice cream social in town on Tuesday evening, I drove out to the harbor to write, which I haven’t had a chance to do since I’ve been here. I only stayed for an hour because it was chilly and dreary, and I spent the majority of the time staring out over the sea instead of writing.

I didn’t think I could bear sitting by myself in my dim apartment all afternoon, so I pulled out my map and drove the cracked, rutted blacktop roads in a large loop around the peninsula. I went to Castine, Maine, a small, picturesque seacoast village that houses the Maine Maritime Academy. I parked at the docks, got a scoop of Gifford’s brownie batter ice cream in a waffle cone (if I keep eating ice cream, banana bread, and apple zucchini bread, I’m going to be as big as a barn by the time these few months are up…) at a pier-side shack, and walked around the town. I spotted a ship moored in the harbor, wandered down to get a closer view, and ended up having a free tour. The State of Maine is a retired Navy ship that is now a teaching vessel for the Maritime Academy. That was the first time I’ve ever been on a ship, and I found her fascinating. I don’t know that I’d want to spend weeks cloistered in her stale bowels as she crossed the waters on the way to foreign ports, but it’d be a great way to see the world.

the State of Maine

the view I was staring out over

21 August 2010

Morning came early today since we had a market day in Blue Hill that started at nine o’clock. Leslie and I are pretty laid-back about selling peaches, but Tim is more hard-core about it, so it’s always a bit more stressful—or at least a tad less enjoyable—when all three of us go. The market lasted for two and a half hours today: an hour and a half too long, in my opinion. There is a guy, though, whom I’ve noticed comes to the Friday and Saturday markets. He’s my age, I think, French, and maybe another apprentice. I’ve decided to befriend him, since I have no friends here, but when I attempted to strike up a conversation with him today, I lost my nerve. That crippling noose of shyness that seizes and grips my lungs and throat is something I detest, but it is something I’ve not yet been able to overcome. And I don’t think I ever will.

The pair of blue jeans I’ve been wearing for the last two weeks could probably stand up in a corner by themselves, so I decided to do laundry today. When I asked Leslie if I could use her washing machine, though—which, when we first spoke over the phone, she assured me I would have access to it—she hedged and said that there was a Laundromat in Blue Hill I could use and that they tried to be very conservative with their water. I’ll admit it, I was a bit miffed. But it ended up just being easier to use three washing machines at once and to have a dryer to use instead of a line to hang my clothes, sheets, and towels on. After the hour or so I spent doing laundry, I ran by the grocery store and then headed back to my apartment to clean and cook a bit and then to watch a movie and read some.

I have to say, I’m rather excited about church tomorrow. I’m desperately hoping to meet people.

20 August 2010

I stayed at the orchard today while Tim and Leslie went to Deer Isle for the Stonington market. Over the course of the day, I watered the onions and saplings, and then I sorted and packed four hundred pounds of peaches. Yep. Twenty-five crates. Two hundred quarts. Four hundred pounds. A lot of peaches.

I got the late afternoon off from work and went out to Naskeag Point. The tide was low when I first got there, and I walked across several hundred yards of the exposed sea floor to stand at what felt like the edge of the world, the stout wind whipping my hair from its moorings, tugging and beckoning for me to ride its wild drafts. I always harbor this strange feeling when I’m walking across the seabed at low tide that I’m crossing the terrain of an alien, foreign world. I almost hesitate to take a step, because the crunch of the littered, empty shells beneath my feet makes me feel as if I were crossing a burial ground. It’s the same feeling that plagued me as I went through the catacombs beneath the Parisian streets. As if it were a sacred shrine to those long dead, and I was not meant to pass there.

19 August 2010

I hauled about a ton of weeds from the garden to the compost pile today. Literally, it was probably 1,000 pounds. It took more around twenty trips back and forth, the large wheelbarrow heaped high with weeds (so high each time that I couldn’t really see over the top and had to throw all of my weight into pushing it forwards). After two hours, the skin on my face, neck, and arms was a lovely shade of mocha; I could feel the grit in my teeth; my shoes, socks, and ankles were caked with dirt; and, when I slapped my gloves against my thigh, a huge, billowing cloud of dust arose from my jeans—my once blue jeans that are now a rather brown hue. After that, I spent the next few hours packing peaches before going to the market in Brooklin this afternoon.

I’m at that point in my life in which I’m striving to ascertain the where and the what and the why and the how of my existence. And, heavens, is it a tumultuous place to be—though I should be comfortable with it by now, since I’ve been in this same spot for years now. I think my problem is that I want to do…well, everything. I want to live life simply, but to the fullest. Be a free spirit, but have responsibilities. Not have more than I need, but not be forced to resort to begging on the streets. Travel the world over, but have a home…

18 August 2010

Today’s workload was fairly light. After setting up the sign and the store and collecting the morning’s peaches, I watered the onions and thinned the leaves on the brussel sprouts. Then I spent the rest of the morning sorting, packing, and weighing peaches for the next four days of farmers’ markets. In the mid-afternoon, Leslie and I loaded the truck and drove to Blue Hill for the Wednesday afternoon market.

It’s strange to think that I haven’t yet been here for two weeks. It feels like I’ve been here forever. I find on a whole, that I’m a pretty introverted and quiet person, though not as much so today as I once was. I want to get to know the people in this sleepy peninsula town, to trade recipes with the women, to hear the tales of the lobstermen and their long years of an affair with the sea, to have game or knitting nights with friends over. But it’s so much easier and more…more comfortable to wearily climb the steep stairs to my apartment every evening, brave the frigid water in my shower (yes, there’s still no hot water), scrounge around for something to eat, pour myself a glass of chocolate milk, sit in a chair pulled up to the sliding glass doors (so that I feel like I’m sitting on the balcony without the disadvantage of mosquito swarms), and read a book, by myself, the silence settling around me like a warm, worn sweater on a frosty winter’s eve.

17 August 2010

One of the things that I’ve always loved is to wake up to the sun, and I did so this morning. I don’t know that I’ve actually slept until my alarm clock goes off since I’ve been here. The soft golden light pouring through my window is enough.

Today was another long, hard day at work. With a rubber stamp and a black inkpad, I stamped five hundred more quart boxes in which to sell peaches. After I’d finished that, I went from stalk to stalk squirting mineral oil on the silks of the corn. Supposedly, this helps keep bugs out of the ear of corn. Then I took down the rusty chicken-wire fence that held up the snow peas and pulled up the five-foot high metal stakes. And then, of course, I picked peaches for hours on end. Even though it’s long, hot work, I enjoy being by myself in the orchard; shaded under the lined trees, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in lace-like patterns; listening to the raucous call of a gull overhead, something that always surprises me, because, surrounded by forest, I forget that the sea is just feet away; hearing the soft thud of sun-warmed peaches as they fall to the ground, too weighted with fruit to withstand the force of gravity anymore. The quiet is one of my favorite things about this place.

16 August 2010

I’m beginning to understand why farmers have always gone to bed with the sun, and last night I followed suit. I was tucked into my bed by eight-thirty as the last, dying light of day was filtering through the trees that tower over my small abode. I dreamed, though, during the night. More than usual. And I kept dreaming that I was picking peaches—which, I suppose is normal when you’ve spent the last nine hours doing just that. I woke up several times in the act of gathering up my bear or my pillow in my arms to put in a crate to load onto the back of the tractor.

It rained all day today, so I was allowed to have the day off. It was glorious just to lounge around and relax, reading, baking a peach cobbler. One of the things that I’ve always known about myself but has become even more apparent over the last week is that, at heart, I’m essentially a lazy person. That is to say, I don’t mind hard work or getting my hands dirty, but I would much prefer to curl up in a chair and spend all day reading or writing.

15 August 2010

I spent nine hours picking peaches today.

There’s not much else I can say about the day other than when I tried to make twice-baked potatoes for dinner, the fire/gas alarm went off again. And Tim and Leslie let me use their shower, which has hot water. It felt so heavenly that I bathed twice, shaved, scrubbed my face with cleanser twice, and washed my hair three times.

14 August 2010

A thought occurred to me this evening as I was talking to my mother over the telephone, pressed up against my sliding glass doors in the only spot in my apartment where I have even the slightest signal on my cell phone, looking out over the garden and orchard as we spoke. Living our so-called civilized lives today, we are no different from our ancestors millennia ago in that our existence is a struggle against the overwhelming forces of nature. Certainly in our advanced day, we have claimed to conquer, to tame, to cultivate her, but I think that we are merely fooling ourselves, for if an orchard is left unkempt for a short period of time—perhaps even in so little time as a week—it will swiftly turn back to wild. Our dominion over nature is really just an illusion. Our lives are but a battle that we have already lost, for we all, at some point, turn back to dust, whether our bones are bleached by the hot sun, swallowed by the sea, or ground under the soil. Whatever marks we have left will fade with time, but the world will still turn and the wilderness will still creep to our abandoned doorsteps. Castles have been built and fallen to ruin, and the earth has reclaimed what was rightfully hers, for was she not created before us? Nature is always the victor, and we are all the great Ozymandius.

I suppose that seems to be a rather morbid and depressing thought, but, for some reason that I cannot quite put into words, I find it oddly comforting, though as I read back over what I’ve written I cannot see why I find it such. No, I don’t think comforting is the correct word. Humbling, rather. Perhaps it is the same sentiment that secures one of Dylan Thomas’s poems as my favorite:

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees

Is my destroyer.

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose

My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks

Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams

Turns mine to wax.

And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins

How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool

Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind

Hauls my shroud sail.

And I am dumb to tell the hanging man

How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;

Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood

Shall calm her sores.

And I am dumb to tell the weather’s wind

How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb

How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

A delicious shiver never fails to crawl up my spine whenever I read that. Time and nature both are conquerors in the end. There is something altogether chilling and yet beautiful about that.

I had the entire day off today, though I did have to get up and have the signs hung out by the road and the table of peaches set up for customers by eight. And then I had to go collect the night’s fallen peaches. That just goes to show you that on any sort of farm, the work is never-ending. Once I was finished for the day, I walked down to see what Tim and Leslie’s small plot of shore looked like in low tide. I came back and cleaned my apartment, airing out the rugs, sweeping the floor, scrubbing the kitchen counters, rearranging my books. Then I went into town to the library to get on the Internet and to the store for a few items.

I spent the entire afternoon cooking. I’m just so exhausted by the end of the day that I don’t feel like preparing a meal. So today, I went ahead and prepared all of my dinners for this next week. I baked some potatoes, an acorn squash, banana bread (and I baked another loaf of apple zucchini bread last night); made granola; and fixed a pizza. Sheesh. I had a little bit of zucchini left and some carrots and beets Leslie had given me the first day I came. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with them (I mean, what does one do with a beet?), so I just cut them up and sautéed them, boiled some spelt pasta, and had vegetables over noodles tonight for dinner. I am stunned to inform you that it was actually quite good. Slight charred because I burnt it, of course. But really tasty. Who knew.

13 August 2010

Having not grown up around it nor ever been interested in living near it, I don’t know much about the sea. The idea of sailing—I had a lesson once on the lake near where my parents live—instills the same fear that flying does, though I imagine that if I were a mere passenger, I would love it. I certainly don’t want to swim in it. Drowning—lungs panicking and staggering for breath—holds a particular terror for me as someone with asthma who, when younger, faced frequent bouts of pneumonia and bronchitis. And besides, there are things in the water that can eat you. But even with that, I’ve always been fascinated by the sea, by its cycles, by its sheer vastness, and I’ve always wanted to learn more about it.

Now that I’m living right here on the Atlantic, I have even more reason to learn about it. From what I understand, the tide circles in six-hour increments. Three hours to reach high tide, the slightest pause, and then three hours to reach low tide. A long, drawn-out inhale and exhale—that’s how I like to think of the sea’s tides, its breath. So you have two high tides and two low tides in a twelve-hour period. The tides phase with the moon, though, so each day high tide and low tide are an hour later than they were the previous day. I find that all enthralling.

This morning, Tim, Leslie, and I drove the forty-five minutes to Deer Isle, a small island community reached by a narrow, high green bridge that spans the water. The farmers’ market was in Stonington today, and this market is actually said to be one of the best in Maine. It reminded me a lot of the street markets in Paris, actually. The vendors were selling everything from Indian food to vegetables and fruit to granola to bread to chocolate to crafts. I think it was my favorite market that I’ve been to here, due to the liveliness and most likely to the fact that I got to walk around more instead of just standing behind a table hawking peaches.

Today was my first time off since I’ve been here, and I spent the afternoon exploring. I drove aimlessly down several different roads just to see where they led and ended up on high hills fingering down into the bay. Then I drove out to the WoodenBoat School, a school here in town that’s famous for, yep, you guessed it, building wooden boats. Since it was a Friday afternoon, not much was going on there, but just the buildings and the small harbor were gorgeous. Just watching the careful crafting made me think of the time my sister and I found a stack of plywood under the cabin we were vacationing at in north Georgia. The two of us hauled the lumber out from under the house, found some old rope lying about, and fashioned a raft. She was a beauty, and we found a piece of charcoal in the fire pit and carefully wrote on her side The Wanderer. Much to our dismay, Dad wouldn’t let us try her out. We were rather crushed, though I doubt she would have floated even if we’d put her in the water. If I had the money, I’d love to build my own sleek wooden kayak. I think I would name her The Wanderer in honor of our first attempt to build a vessel. At any rate, I took a schedule with me, so I can go back during the week sometime and watch some of the classes.

I then drove out to Naskeag Point. The tide was high, so I didn’t get to explore any of the shoreline. Instead, I sat at a picnic bench and read (I’m rereading all of my Mary Stewart books. I own them all and have read each of them at least, oh, ten times probably. They never get old. She’s an absolute genius, and when I wrote her a letter and a couple weeks later received a handwritten reply, I almost died. She is my all-time favorite). It seems to me that high tide and low tide smell different. High tide smells of fish and other sea life. I sat there for several hours reading, listening to the wind in the trees and the glug-glug-glug of the lobster boats as they puttered by.

Low tide, however, smells briny and crisp. And I have to say that I prefer those hours when the seas pulls back, when she folds back her reach and allows we mere mortals to glimpse the world beneath her. At the bridge where my breath was first stolen, there’s an island to the left, unreachable except by boat when the tide is in. I waited for a few hours today and when the sea began its gradual slide back, I pulled my Wellies from my trunk, donned them, and crossed the narrow, gravelly strip of shore that the low tide exposed and that led to the island. The island is small, huge boulders and scattered shells leading out of the water and up to its forested center. I scrambled over the rocks, waded through shallow tide pools, and slipped over seaweed beds, exploring this craggy outpost. Alone on that uninhabited island, clambering from shaley rock to rock, I let my imagination take off. I was an explorer on a quest through unchartered territory, where it was my duty, my privilege to fill in the yawning blankness on the parchment map. I was a castaway, lone and independent and relying on myself and the benevolence of a fickle sea for survival. I was a fisherman’s wife who knows that she will always be her husband’s second love, for his first will always be the water that eddies around my rubber boots. I was a keeper of the light, a beacon on a raging winter’s night, holding in my hands the means to guide others safely home...

the island I explored

WoodenBoat's harbor

12 August 2010

I’m a relatively fair-skinned person—not quite the ghostly pale that my sister claims me to be, but fair enough that I burn easily. The last four days—heavens, have I only been here four days?—have been long hours of work under an unrelenting sun, and my skin is showing it. Along with the bug welts, my arms are now covered in a heat rash. It’s really quite lovely, I assure you. This happened to me in Africa, though I can’t say I expected quite the same result here in Maine.

The morning started off cool, so much so that I woke up around five and had to pull up my quilts from where I’d folded them to the foot of the bed the night before. The air still had a brisk chill to it as I collected the peaches this morning, but the sun was blazing with its usual vigor while I harvested the last of the snow peas and then pulled up all of the plants and pitched them on the compost pile. I spent the next couple of hours helping Leslie sort, weigh, and pack peaches, and then late this afternoon she and I loaded up the truck and drove into Brooklin for the weekly farmers’ market.

Today’s market was the second one I’ve been to so far—she and I took our peaches to one in Blue Hill yesterday afternoon. Setting up the tent and the tables and the signs are hard work, but the event itself, while tiring, is enjoyable. It’s a fun challenge to try to charm people into buying our fruit.

I love to listen to people talk up here, and I’ve been astonished at how friendly Mainers are. This is how a typical conversation goes at the farmers’ market:

“Hello! How are you today?” –me

“Oh, hi, deah. Good, I’m good. How ah ya?” –customer

“I’m doing well today, thank you. Would you like to try some of our peaches? They’re grown just up the road. I picked some of these myself just yesterday.” –me

“Well, these peaches ah lovely.” –customer

“They taste just as good as they look. Would you like to try a sample?” –me

“Oh, shuh. Oh my. I think I’ll take some o’ these. Ya ahen’t from around heh, ah ya, deah?” –customer

From what I’ve seen so far, the people here are as rugged and inviting as the land.

11 August 2010

A storm blew in last night, though not an especially violent one, with just enough rain so that the air was cool this morning. I collected peaches first thing and then gathered the pickling cucumbers that were ready to be taken off the vine. Then I helped Tim clear out some of the Patty Pan squash. This type of squash is shaped liked a ruffled mushroom cap and is white. The plant itself, though, was taking over its section of the garden, strangling the zucchini and other squash, so we ripped some of it up and tossed it in the compost heap. I tugged up daikons—a white Japanese radish—and scrubbed them free of dirt, all the while feeling rather like Peter Rabbit pilfering Farmer MacGregor’s garden. Then I spent the next three hours crawling through the cornrows pulling weeds by hand. Three hours. For four rows of corn. If I were a swearing person, those three hours would have gone something like this: Yank, curse. Tug, expletive. Weeding lends itself to that. As it was, I worked silently, listening to the honeybees hum overhead as they collected pollen, breathing a sigh of relief as a cloud wafted in front of the sun and a breeze rustled through the stalks.

I’m not sure how the idea of farming became such an idyllic notion in my head. The British poets of the Romantic era obviously never had to pull weeds under the high noon sun or battle hordes of mosquitoes or toil over prickly vegetables when they were writing their pastoral verses. The work on a farm—even a small-scale orchard—is hot, dirty, tiring, and backbreaking. And there’s never an end to the work, day in and day out. That’s not to say I’m not enjoying the work. I am, even though it’s exhausting. But these last three days—not to mention the next four months—have effectively destroyed that unrealistic fantasy in my head of life on a farm.

overlooking part of the orchard in the evening

10 August 2010

If God were to rid the earth of the foul pestilence that is the mosquito, you’d hear no complaint from me. I’ve tried just about everything, and I’m still being eaten alive. I have bug bites all over me, and the itching is about to drive me up the wall. I’d like to scrub my flesh with a wire brush.

I’m exhausted after a long day of collecting last night’s fall of peaches, harvesting plums, harvesting peaches, and then sorting, packing, and weighing one hundred forty-four quarts of peaches to sale tomorrow at the farmers’ market.

Oh, and that repairman who was supposed to fix the hot water heater? Yep, never showed. Another guy has been here the last two days trying to figure it out, but he can’t either. Today, I just couldn’t stand it any longer. I wanted to peel off my skin and go soak in the icy Atlantic. But I’d be attacked by yet more mosquitoes on the way down to the bay and back. So instead, I heated three teakettles and a pot of water on my four burners and proceeded to bathe nineteenth century-style. Of course, I almost scalded myself several times, and I also turned the cold water on every now and then to rinse off better. It was such an ordeal but definitely worth it.

It’s five thirty, and I’m finished for the day. I’d love to explore more of the area, try to get involved with the community, but, at the moment, I’m worn out. Plus, the second I walk out the door, the mosquitoes start assembling the troops…

Just call me a pioneer

9 August 2010

Part III

I finished the day today around three o’clock, and I’m exhausted. I’ll have to get used to the physical labor, but hopefully it won’t take me long to acclimate. I drove the twelve miles into Blue Hill this afternoon. Blue Hill is the closest big town, though I use the term big loosely. Compared to my general store/library/post office town, it’s a booming metropolis. I went to the Blue Hill Library for their free wireless Internet and updated my blog, posting the 8 August 2010 note and the Part I and Part II of today. Then I went to the grocery store, purchased the items on my list, and headed back to my apartment. My apple zucchini bread is in the oven as I write this, and so far the fire/gas alarm has not gone off. Knock on wood.

A lot I’ve told about this four-month venture have asked the same question: What are you going to do if you find a man there? Well, there are a lot of men here, but I know people are really asking about The One. That cracks me up just to write it as I feel that I am much more down-to-earth to believe in such a fantasy. Don’t get me wrong, men are fascinating creatures and marriage is a gift, but I prefer not to look at both with too many stars in my eyes or unrealistic expectations. Relationships, especially marriage, are hard and require work, and I think too many times that’s forgotten. I suppose I’m at that point in life, though, (at the ripe old age of twenty-two) at which people (namely, my grandmother) begin to wonder if I’m going to be single for the rest of my life. At the moment, it sure looks like it, but I honestly don’t know that I have the time, energy, and patience to have a man in my life right now, and I’ve always seen myself marrying when I’m older, in my thirties or so. I’m only twenty-two! I have my entire life ahead of me!

I have to admit, though, that I’m already a little bit lonely. Even as someone who, more often than not, prefers solitude and quiet, over the last few years I’ve learned the incredible value of friendship, of companionship, of community. And while I love this place already, I wouldn’t mind someone to share it with. I’m certainly not praying for a man, but I am asking God to send me a friend. In whatever shape, form, or fashion he sees fit.

P.S. The apple zucchini bread cooked without a single hitch. And it’s delicious. Wish you were here to sit down and enjoy a cup of chocolate milk and a slice of hot bread with me.

Center Harbor

9 August 2010

Part I

Monday morning started off bright and early. Actually, when my alarm clock first went off, the sun had yet to come up. It’s overcast, cool, and rainy this morning.

The repairman was supposed to be here at six, but he’s yet to show (it’s 7:30 as I write this). Tim showed me around the orchard this morning, and my first job everyday will be to walk down the lines of peach trees, which are bearing fruit right now, and collect the “seconds”—the peaches that have fallen to the ground overnight. These will be sold to those who are going to be making jams and jellies with the fruit they purchase from us.

After looking around and learning where everything was, I spent the next hour in the cider house stamping five hundred quart peach cartons with the words “5 Star Nursery & Orchard.” The early morning drizzle has picked up to a soft, steady rain, so I’m back in my apartment for an hour or so.

Part II

It’s been a busy day so far, even though it’s only early afternoon. The rain has cleared, and the sun is still attempting to burn off the clouds. I just got back to my apartment after lunch. When Leslie gets back from town, I’ll help her make dill pickles, but right now I’m just sitting at my kitchen table resting.

I had tofu for the first time today. I expected to have to muscle my way past the gag reflex, but it actually wasn’t too bad. Still, I don’t see myself whipping up tofu for dinner anytime soon.

The repairman never showed, so I think we’ve given up on him for the moment. I’m debating whether I want to face an icy shower tonight or not. I probably should… So far today I’ve labeled the peach cartons; collected the peaches that fell during the night; set up the signs at the end of the drive announcing that we have peaches for sale; set up the table of peaches to sale on Tim and Leslie’s front porch; chopped down a small oak, pine, and spruce tree; shoveled gravel and dirt to make the transition from the road to the driveway smoother; scrubbed the walls and door of the walk-in refrigerator in the cider house with Clorox; hauled lumber down to the end of the orchard and stacked it neatly in the wood pile; and picked peas and cucumbers. I’m exhausted already, but it’s a good kind of tired.

Peaceful—if I could think of one word to describe this place, that would be it. This morning as I was working in the orchard the only sound was the soft squelch of my Wellies as I duck-walked under the trees collecting the night’s bounty, the quiet patter of rain on the leaves overhead, the gentle sigh of the wind as it sifted through the woods around the orchard, and the laughter of crows. I couldn’t quite hear the lap of the sea against the rocks just beyond the stand of pines and oaks at the end of the orchard, but I could imagine it.

To someone who has made avoiding social situations an art, who always finds the quiet and empty corner in a roomful of people, who cringes at the very thought of being in a pressing crowd, this is a little slice of paradise.

the seaside at the end of the orchard

the strip of shore at the end of the orchard

8 August 2010

Part I

I’m well and truly alone now, sitting in front of the library at the only Internet hotspot in town. I dropped Mum off at the Bangor Airport today, and, as I drove away, I had to fight back tears. Not because I regret this or because I’m not excited about what lies ahead in these next four months. But home is…safe. And I’ve left all of that behind.

Sitting at a red light in Bangor, wondering what on earth I’m doing, my car pointed south towards my rugged peninsula but my foot on the brake, all of those doubts started creeping back in. Then a big RV turned in front of me, and emblazoned across the side of the camper were the words Be Brave. I’m one to scoff at those who claim to receive divine messages, but I needed those words right then, and I won’t question who sent them.

Part II

I’m actually sitting in bed as I write this. Just after I published the last post (7 August 2010), my Internet connection dropped, so I drove the few miles back to my apartment. Right as I turned down the gravel lane that leads to my new home, a red fox darted across the road in front of me. He was gorgeous, and just the sight of him—a reminder that this part of the country is still a little wild, remains slightly untouched—lifted my spirits.

It’s several hours later, and I’m not feeling so brave anymore. I was hungry when I arrived back at my apartment, and, rather than try to bake something elaborate, I simply put a sweet potato in the oven to cook for dinner. The oven is a gas one, and, while I’m used to an electric oven, I do know how to work one that runs on gas. I turned a burner on to make sure I didn’t need to light a match for it, and the blue flames flared immediately to life. I took that as a good sign, turned the oven on, and put in my sweet potato. I straightened up a bit, arranged the crate of books I brought on the shelves, and then nearly jumped out of my skin when the fire/gas detector in my apartment suddenly bleated out its shrill, blaring warning. Fearing that toxic gas was building up and was mere moments from exploding (remember that bit about my severely overactive imagination?), I hurriedly turned off the oven, frantically opened all three windows, and then ran up the drive to Tim and Leslie’s. Tim was kind enough to come back down and check things for me. He thought the alarm was probably just sensitive, and the oven’s brand new so it’s probably just working itself out. About fifteen minutes later, the alarm almost gives me another heart attack. I climbed back up on a chair and used a chopstick to reach up and push the button to shut the alarm off. And then I turned off the oven and broke out the bread and cheese and applesauce.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but my toilet for the next four months is a bucket that sits under a wooden sit in a small, neat shack a short walk from my apartment. Yep, a compost toilet. Every time I use it, I drop a little bit of sawdust in there, and, when it fills up, I hauled the bucket to the compost heap and dump it out. A bit rustic, but it’s really not bad at all. Except at night. Remember, the imagination that likes to run rampant. I’m not hiking out to the edge of the woods at night. No way, no how. That’s a freak-out session waiting to happen. So to combat such a situation, I got an extra bucket to keep in my house in case of a middle of the night emergency. The only problem is that anyone and everyone has a bird’s-eye view into the three rooms in my apartment when the lights are on; so I’ve put the bucket in my small shower, which at least has fogged glass, with a roll of toilet paper right beside it. Just in case. I’ve been trying not to drink too much water in the evenings to prevent such situations, but when nature calls…

So here I am, sitting on my bed with every window in my house still open (in case there was a build-up of gas that failed to escape) and a bucket in my shower so that if I have to pee in the middle of the night my sanity won’t suffer. It’s not terribly late, but I’m still drained from those three days of driving and my day starts early tomorrow—five o’clock. I hope I remember to move the bucket from the shower before the repairman gets here at six to fix my finicky hot water heater…

when I was originally writing this, I was sitting under the tent at the far left of the picture

me sitting at the entrance to my new home

my bedroom

my kitchen

my living room/dining room

my compost toilet in the foreground and the cider house behind it (my apartment is the second level)

7 August 2010

After twenty-seven hours of driving and 1,545 miles, Mum and I reached our destination in Maine.

The first day we drove twelve hours from our house in north Alabama to Winchester, Virginia; the second day, eleven hours from Winchester to the Massachusetts/New Hampshire state line; the third, the rest of the way to this tiny coastal town in downeast Maine. The drive went smoothly with only two heavy downpours, a thirty-minute crawl on the Massachusetts turnpike, a bout of crawling through Friday evening Boston traffic on the 495 North, and a thirty-minute delay just outside of Chattanooga. We learned later that the delay in Tennessee—we sat still for thirty minutes before doing a U-turn in the middle of the interstate and driving the wrong direction up an exit ramp to take back roads around the delay—was because of a wreck. An eighteen-wheeler had run off the road, flipped down a ravine into a creek, and caught on fire. A witness had tried to pull the driver out but couldn’t, and the man driving the rig died. When I heard that Thursday night, I felt…guilty. Ungrateful. Ashamed. While I was impatiently studying the atlas and plotting alternate routes, a man was trapped upside down in a gorge less than one hundred feet from me burning to death.

That’s one of my biggest fears: burning to death. Actually, I have a lot of fears—perhaps the result of an excruciatingly overactive imagination—and I’m the type of person who gives something up when frightened. The best example I can think of is flying. I soloed an airplane before I ever drove a car by myself. I got my driver’s license and my student pilot’s license within weeks of each other. I’m not afraid of flying; I love heights; I was an exceptionally good pilot according to my flight instructor. But I didn’t like being in control. I realize that sounds pretty ridiculous coming from a control freak with OCD tendencies. I love neatness and order and control. But I couldn’t handle the feeling that I was holding my own life in my hands, that everything I was doing in the cockpit defied the very laws that hold us bound to this earth, that I had complete control over whether I lived or died. I realize that, in a sense, we have that control every day—we’re always walking the fine line between life and death—but alone, several thousand feet above the ground, with nothing but scraps of metal (or, in my favorite plane to fly—a 1947 Piper Cub—a few flimsy sheets of canary yellow canvas) between me and oblivion… Well, call me weak, but I eventually, regretfully walked away.

I suppose fear of failure is at the root, and I’ll admit that I’ve walked away from a lot of things in life fearing just that: something short of perfection. Have I mentioned I’m a perfectionist? And even though I’ve been anticipating this venture, doubts still plagued me. What if I suck at picking apples (I know, how hard can it be? But still…)? What if Tim and Leslie and I don’t get along and work well together? What if I’m not responsible enough to live on my own? What if this is just a foolhardy endeavor? What if this changes my life in such a way that I’m not ready for? What if something happens to my family while I’m on the opposite end of the country? What if Elizabeth needs me, if she misses me as much as I miss her already?

All of those doubts—I seem to have worrying down to an art—seemed to melt away as Mum and I drove down winding back roads, twisting through tall stands of pine, climbing and descending rolling hills, passing Robert Frost-esque stone fences. Then the road dropped down, we crossed an old bridge, and there it was… A rough, craggy promontory, water from the salt pond on the right spilling into the blue bay spreading out to our left, boats—their crisp sails hoisted and unfurled, catching their breath in the wind—yawing towards the sea, lobster pots baited and dropped. It was so breathtaking, so beautiful that to look at it was almost painful. It was everything I’d dreamed of, everything I thought only existed in my imagination.

view from the bridge

view from the bridge

Naskeag Point